


Under my Umbrella

by FlourishBelle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Headcanon, How They Met, M/M, drug overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:59:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlourishBelle/pseuds/FlourishBelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock overdoses and is taken to the hospital, Mycroft finds himself reluctant to step into a world where he can no longer change the outcome for his brother, and in Greg Lestrade, he finds the clarity he needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under my Umbrella

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of many ways that I like to imagine that Mycroft and Lestrade met. I imagine this being the spark between the two of them, and the first of many long talks they'd share. :)
> 
> Thank you to sjlhtjz for translating this work in to Chinese! I am honored! :)

When they meet, it is under the unusual circumstances that could only be imagined by those who know the unusual circumstances that make up both of their lives. But, to be fair, when you fall into orbit around Sherlock Holmes, usual is more of a luxury than a baseline.

That Tuesday found Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade at his desk shuffling through the endless reports and paperwork that filtered through his office every day. Old things that needed filing, nothing too pressing. It was just when he was wondering why he hadn’t heard from Sherlock that day when Sally Donovan came to the door.

“Sir? It’s John Watson on line two. It’s about Sherlock - says its urgent.”

“Why didn’t he call-” Right. Phone’s dead. Damn it. “Thanks.”  
An uneasy feeling of dread filled him as he picked up the phone. “John?”

“Greg. I’ve just phoned the police, they’re on their way.” It was the tone in his voice, like a violin string pulled too tight, the calm, collected panic that was the mark of military service. “Sherlock’s overdosed. I found him in the bathroom when I got back from the clinic. Shallow breathing, weak pulse. Nearly unconscious. Thought you’d wanna know.”

It had been years since anything like this. He remembered years ago, long before John when Sherlock was just the skinny kid who wouldn’t leave them alone about the Carl Powers case. He swore time and time again, to anyone who would listen that he was murdered. But none of the evidence at the time supported it, and all he had to go on was the absence of the kid’s trainers. None of the other officers would take him seriously and at first, neither did Lestrade. He had to admit though, over time Sherlock proved that he was more intelligent than most, even if he acted like a prat about it most of the time. They ended up keeping in touch after the younger Sherlock demanded work, even if only cold cases to keep him going.

“Something to keep my mind busy,” he had said “Something else to keep me occupied.” Soon after, Lestrade found out just what it was that Sherlock seemed to be running from, or rather running _on_.

 

“He said something like ‘he needed to focus’. I don’t know. Says he needed it for the work. Stupid moron could’ve died. Again! Almost did. I can’t even...” John is holding a cold cup of tea in the waiting room like he’s forgotten that it’s in his hand, and Greg takes it before he drops it all together. He doesn’t really know what to say, anyway it seems like the guy’s talking to himself at this point. He looks down into the tea for answers.

“I’m gonna warm this up, grab me some too. Be right back. Lemmie know if they tell you anything.” John nods, scrubbing a hand through his hair again. Desprate for air, even in the rain, Lestrade heads for the nearest door. After he takes his first drag, he hears that voice for the first time. A little poncy for a downtown hospital, he thinks. Very educated, and almost equally as exhausted.

“How is he?” The voice asks. It comes from a tall man in a fine suit, controlled dark hair, and a regal posture. He holds a large, black umbrella over his head while he smokes.  
“Sorry?”  
“Sherlock. How is he?” Lestrade blinks through the fog he’s been in for a while. Putting two and two together, coming up with the fact that this must be the enigmatic older Holmes.  
“Stable. We haven’t heard much beyond that and haven’t been allowed anywhere near him yet,” he swallowed, “Sorry, how did you-”  
“It wasn’t difficult Inspector Lestrade. I’m Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s older brother.” At this, Mycroft extends the umbrella, motioning for him to join in the shelter. With subtle reluctance, he does.  
“Yeah, I put that together.” They smoke in silence for a few moments before, “Why aren’t you inside? Find out how he is for yourself? I’m sure they’d even let you back there with him. John put up a fight, but they wouldn’t budge.” Mycroft smiles.  
“I can imagine doctor Watson would put up quite a fight for my little brother. Funny how easily people get attached,” he takes a drag, and exhales elegantly, somehow, “I’m not in there because I know how this goes. I have, unfortunately, been dragged through this process with my brother in the past and while there are many things I am capable of out in the world, Inspector, in there I am useless. As soon as I step through those doors, I cannot deny the fact that there is nothing I can do to change the outcome of his actions. I suppose, in the end, I am out here...delaying the inevitable.”

The quiet that follows isn’t silence, because it is pregnant with every single word. This is a man who is used to control, who seamlessly runs a great part of the world from behind a desk, if John and Sherlock are to be believed. He has fears like everyone else, and in the end he worries about his brother, and fears stepping into a world where he is helpless to stop what could be happening to him. Lestrade feels that he’s been given some kind of gift. It’s something he’s been entrusted with, he thinks. They meet each other’s eyes and something passes between them in that moment. There’s a connection somehow, something they both needed.

  
Mycroft finishes his cigarette and crushes it underfoot. He looks exhausted and sighs heavily before straightening again and absorbing all evidence of lingering worry. He doesn’t know if it’s the cold, the smoke, the rain, or even if it’s the damn umbrella, but Lestrade takes the small step to the left that brushes his arm against Mycroft’s, in comfort.  
“You won’t be alone, you know. John’s in there practically pulling his hair out.” He takes a drag, and finishes his, “This is how the rest of the world feels. Waiting for the unknown. When it comes to the people we love we’ve just gotta wait. Wait, and hold on to hope.” Mycroft nods, staring out into the rain. “Plus, that bastard’s pretty good at staging comebacks.”

That garners a smile, and they’re both laughing when John comes out the door.  
“He’s awake. Tried you on your mobile, but I can see you’re busy.” He smiles with teasing humor, and nods. “Mycroft.” He turns and heads back into the hospital.  
“Ready to face the music?” Lestrade asks, giving what he hopes is an encouraging smile.  
“Now, I am. Thank you, Inspector.” Mycroft smiles.  
“Please, call me Greg.”

 

Three weeks later, it’s raining and Lestrade seems to have disappeared completely. Through the organized chaos of casing the crime scene, no one seems to have noticed him slip out the front door to meet a new friend beneath an umbrella out in the rain. With their heads bent close together and cigarettes in hand, they talk and laugh, forgetting the responsibilities of the day and whatever it was that brought them both to this place and time. And if they stand just a little closer than they need to, if their hands brush more than they have to, if the rest of the world falls away around them, no one really notices. None but the eyes of an ex-soldier see Mycroft and Lestrade, but even he knows a secret worth keeping when he sees one.


End file.
